


corporal agents

by sinequanon



Series: we are thus [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dreams and Nightmares, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Mind Manipulation, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-05-14 14:48:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19275493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinequanon/pseuds/sinequanon
Summary: Peter has been having a rough few days. He was cornered in a dark alley, rescued by a dead girl and a possibly possessed jeep, delivered to a strangely compelling magician of dubious intent, and has spent way too much time wandering through the man’s weird house.It’s nice that the magician is attractive, of course, but that might not be enough to make up for the rest of it.





	corporal agents

**Author's Note:**

> So, first of all, I need to apologize for letting this series sit for almost two years. I know I was gone for a while, but still. Second, this story is largely unedited because it has been a big pain in my butt and I just want to stop looking at it. I meant for it to be much longer (and to wrap up the series altogether), but I can’t tell you how many times I started and restarted before I just pulled this part out of the middle and went crazy. It is intentionally weird, but I’m pretty sure it still mostly makes sense. Just remember that Peter is a largely unreliable narrator in this, and the things he thinks are happening may not actually be happening.
> 
> If there are any major errors in here, feel free to point them out, and I’ll fix them eventually.
> 
> NOTE: This series is best read in order. You might be able to read this one without the others, but I’m not sure I’d recommend it.

Peter Hale was thirteen when he realized that the natural realm and the supernatural one were much closer together than most people realized. True, he’d always been steeped in the supernatural as part of a werewolf pack, but it wasn’t as if they went around touting their differences for everyone to see. He still lived in a mostly human town and went to a mostly human school and shopped at mostly human stores, so even when Aunt Amy told him stories on dark nights about hidden magics and unsolved mysteries, he never really understood what she had been trying to tell him.

Peter spent most of that year trying to find himself and his place in the pack: too old to be close to his cousins; too young to be considered one of the adults. He enjoyed their family gatherings, traveling to different houses in a different parts of the country, running among different trees and different rocks and different streams, but he always felt like he was missing _something._

Aunt Amy’s house was nestled at the edge of a great spruce forest in a sparsely populated area of Maine. She lived alone and took great pleasure in playing up “the witch in the woods” stereotype for any kids who were brave enough to trek their way to her house. Aside from the snow, Peter might have loved it even more than his own house.

Christmas Eve of Peter’s thirteenth year started with family and hot chocolate. It started snowing in the early afternoon, enough that the wolves went on their run when the sun was still shining, and the cousins had no problem building a veritable army of snowmen in the front yard. At 8:00, about the time the family Christmas traditions would normally begin, Peter’s youngest cousin suddenly took ill, and it was Peter, the family decided, who would go and fetch the doctor. Through the woods, in the snow, on Christmas Eve.

As an adult, Peter still didn’t know exactly why he had been chosen, but at the time, he was simply grateful for the chance to prove his worth. The path through the woods was both swift and beautiful, and it seemed like mere minutes when Peter reached the tiny town on the other side of the forest.

The town was silent and still, save for Peter’s heavy breathing and the snow that continued to fall. Storefronts that had been so bright and cheery during the day were silhouetted only by the artificial glow of the holiday lights strung across roofs and awnings. It should have been a peaceful scene, the kind movies used to show a calm and peaceful night before Christmas, and yet Peter couldn’t help but picture how the town would look if no one return to it, and it was slowly consumed by snow.

For a moment, he stood frozen, knowing that his vision wasn’t real, but he couldn’t help but notice how the lights blinked at him hungrily, the snow kept falling faster and faster—

And then he blinked, and noticed the clinic’s light, and with a deep sigh of relief pushed every thought other than his baby cousin out of his mind.

<> <>

Peter opened his eyes to a place he hadn’t seen in over twenty years. The clinic looked exactly the same, as if the kindly human doctor that had greeted him that night was, at any moment, going to come around the corner to welcome him once again. It was impossible, of course; the man had been elderly when Peter was a boy, but something in the werewolf would not have been surprised at all to see the doctor, watching him with those too-knowing eyes.

“What do you want more than anything in the world?”

There was a girl sitting at the doctor’s desk, fifteen maybe, with dark hair and eyes, watching him like she knew every one of his secrets and was prepared to beat them out of him if necessary. The girl seemed content to let him look his fill, and Peter took the option to stall for time, if nothing else. He’d seen a lot of strange things as his family’s supernatural representative and sometime relic hunter, but he knew that even with the familiar setting and strangely familiar girl that something wasn’t quite right. On closer inspection, Peter realized that the brunette looked very much like what he thought his daughter might have looked like, if Malia had survived. The werewolf felt his breath hitch as the sound of screeching tires and the crunch of metal rang in his ears.

“The sacrifice is great, if you want to stay,” the young woman added, “but the rewards are greater.” A blink, and an eight-year-old Malia sat before him. “So I ask, what is it that you want most?”

With the specter of his daughter before him, Peter couldn’t help but think of Malia, happy and healthy and whole. He turned away so she couldn’t see him, because there were other things that he wanted, too: knowledge and power and someone to understand—

Peter’s mind flashed to another girl that shouldn’t exist, but did, and he wondered what Stiles had to sacrifice for his ghostly companion. He turned back to ask about it, only to find a different Hale waiting in his daughter’s place.

“I wouldn’t mind living here,” Cora said, with a smirk and a roll of her eyes. “At least if I lived with you, I could get away from Laura and Derek, who, you know, can’t stop being _Laura_ and _Derek_.

“They’d miss you,” Peter couldn’t help but argue, to which Cora added a, “uh huh” and another eye roll. If Cora had truly been there, that would have been the moment in which the two of them started planning yet another scheme to drive the rest of the family crazy. A scheme which would succeed, of course, partially because of skill, and partially because everyone knew better than to get on Peter or Cora’s bad sides. They also knew that, love aside, Cora was more than powerful enough to be a threat to her siblings’ positions in the pack. If and when she felt like exerting that power, which, thankfully for Laura and Derek, was practically never.

(That she had settled for pranking them relentlessly, instead, was considered a minor miracle which no one questioned too closely.)

If this had been a normal situation, Peter and Cora could have kept bantering almost indefinitely. Instead, he made himself ask, “What is this place?”

“What isn’t it?” was the reply.

Peter couldn’t say why _that_ line made him turn and run out the door, but it did, and he was outside almost before he even knew his feet were moving. Once there, though, he was alone, in the dark, with only the snow and twinkling lights to greet him.

The werewolf felt a sliver of unease roll down his spine. How had he gotten here, again?

“ _Oh_ ,” a new voice said, and then Aunt Amy was there, smiling her secret smile that made Peter feel like he was thirteen all over again. He fought the urge to look behind him, sure his sister would be standing there with her judgy face on. “I hadn’t expected _that_ to be your fondest wish. Are you sure that’s what you want? He’ll always belong to us first, you know.”

Before Peter had time to figure out what not-Amy was talking about, she snapped her fingers, and the world grayed out.

<> <>

Peter had never been so comfortably warm.

He was lying in the grass, surrounded by the most beautiful light while the sun beamed down on him and the sweet scent of wildflowers carried on the breeze. The light flowed down, down, through his head and arms and chest, down all the way through his legs and feet and even his toes, soothing and tingling by turns. It moved over, and under, and around him until he felt like he was almost more light than man, as if a strong wind could come and scatter him away. He probably should have been concerned about that, but he was relaxed and warm, and he knew that the light was useful and good, and that even if he dissolved into nothing, the light would carry on without him.

Just as he was thinking that a nap sounded like an excellent idea, a set of sharp teeth clamped down on his arm and he shot up with a yell.

He threw his body forward in a feeble attempt to ward off his attacker, and found himself staring into a pair of bright, yellow eyes, which were, in turn, attached to a rather large blue tiger.

Peter froze.

Once the tiger seemed sure he had Peter’s attention, he let go of the arm and turned instead toward a large staircase a few feet behind him that the werewolf was absolutely certain had not been there five minutes ago, to say nothing of the fact that staircases don’t often appear in the middles of meadows.

“You want me to...go down?”

The tiger simply stared at Peter until he made a move, looking for all the world like he’d be raising eyebrows if he had them, and then fell in beside the wolf as he approached the spiral staircase and stepped down.

The staircase itself was solid, and made out of some sort of wood that nevertheless gleamed like wet stone. The bannisters were held up by carvings of creatures that Peter couldn’t identify, and that seemed to shift, just slightly, if he stared at them for too long. The tiger nudged him forward more than once when Peter lingered, and with every step down, Peter could feel his body sinking as well. All of his cares and concerns slipped down to the soles of his feet, to be left lying uselessly on the stairs as he passed. The tension in his shoulders, the bite mark on his arm...everything unpleasant slipped down and away, as if they’d never been there at all. By the time Peter had made it halfway down, his head felt strangely light, like the clouds above him, and the staircase he’d already passed, vanishing into nowhere. He tried not to think about it, but took comfort in the steady rumble of the tiger pressed against his side.

Peter and the tiger found themselves at the bottom both sooner and later than expected. Peter would have been relieved—he half-convinced himself that there _was_ no bottom a while ago—but the carvings in the bannisters had gotten bolder as they descended, and without the tiger by his side, he thought the staircase might have carried him away altogether, down and down and down, never to be seen again.

So, stepping out into the mass of redwoods would normally have given him pause, considering his journey thus far, but he knew that forward was the only option. Thankfully, the forest floor was soft and welcoming as Peter and the tiger walked among the sequoias. The gigantic, ancient trees surrounded them on all sides, and the forest was obviously full of life, but nothing confronted them as they walked. The woods were shaded and calm, little shafts of light poked through the treetops like signposts, wildflowers bloomed, and birds sang sweetly all along the way. The path was easy to follow, and the pair moved comfortably for a long while, until all at once they reached a clearing and the tiger let out a furious roar that had Peter instinctively stopping and searching for danger. There was nothing, though, save for a massive tree stump with a tiny, green shoot poking out from its cracks.

When Peter stepped forward to get a closer look, the tiger stepped back, and by the time the werewolf reached the tree, his feline companion had disappeared altogether. He turned back, just in case, and saw a chest, small, but not unlike the one in his room, sitting in the clearing opposite the tree. There was a key in the lock.

It was practically begging to be opened.

Peter reached out and touched the chest carefully, almost gently, and when nothing happened, he turned the key and carefully lifted the lid to peek inside.

<> <>

Peter woke in small increments as the wolfsbane slowly worked its way out of his system. He was laying on one of the softest things he'd ever touched, the air around him tasted of summer storms and apple pie, and that all of the loud, discordant sounds of the city were absent. He was safe. His ears pricked at the sound of footsteps moving toward him, and half of a conversation drifted down the hallway.

“...Of course, he’s attractive. That's really not the point right now.”

“No, Ally, it doesn't matter to me that he's a werewolf. Why would that make a difference?”

_Because werewolves are tastier than magicians, of course._

Peter tore his gaze away from the chest and threw it against one of the surrounding trees with a snarl, chest heaving. That was—

“I thought you wanted to understand?” Talia appeared before him, her face dark with anger. The unbroken chest was in her hands. “You didn’t want your daughter, or Cora, or any of the rest of us. You wanted to know, Peter Hale, so _know_!” she roared, and thrust the chest hard enough to topple both he and the box to the ground. The box fell open.

_The magic is the bedroom is thick enough to drown in, but Peter didn’t care. The man in front of him made up for it._

_“I'm Stiles,” the magician said. His eyes never wavered from Peter. “We’d apologize for the abduction and everything, but we aren’t sorry.”_

_Peter opened his mouth to say something both sarcastic and suggestive, to poke a little at this new feeling. Instead, he got out little more than his name before Stiles was leaning over him with a look that sent shivers down his spine and put a smile on his face._

_“Kiss me, Peter.”_

<> <>

" _Peter_."

The voice was low, almost hypnotic, and familiar. Peter shivered, strangely torn between desire and dread. But when he turned, there was only Stiles, curled up under the covers.

“Why don’t you come to bed?” he patted the spot beside him with a grin. “The basement is as secure as it’s ever going to be, and all of the rest of it will still be there tomorrow.”

“The basement?”

“I’ll never be able to swim in an underground pool again, but it isn’t like the kraken can get out.”

“Kraken?”

“Yeah, remember? Giant fish squid thing? Appeared in the pool this morning, nearly gave me a heart attack?” Stiles squinted at him. “Is everything okay, Peter?”

 _Open your eyes for me, Peter_. A breath of a sigh caressed his cheek. _You'll only make it worse it you resist, darling_.

Peter’s eyes flew open in surprise, only to find himself caught in Stiles’s dark gaze. It was everything and nothing like he remembered. "There you are."

The werewolf forced himself not to look away. “Who are you?” he asked, because despite how little he seemed to understand at the moment, he _knew_ this wasn’t the young man he’d met before.

The doppelgänger leaned forward to cup the other man's face. "Let go, Peter. I'll take care of you." There was a quick brush of lips before Stiles leaned back with a smile.

The thing was, Peter also knew that Stiles absolutely would take care of him. Despite having had almost no conversation with the man, he knew that Stiles meant him no harm. This was something different. It wasn’t unpleasant—the way not-Stiles’s fingers played like electricity across his skin—but he couldn’t afford to lay here forever, and there was no tiger to save him this time.

Not-Stiles wasn't about to let Peter leave the room, and the wolf was starting to sink into the warmth. At some point, Stiles had gotten behind him and was kneading the muscles in his shoulders with firm, sure fingers.

Peter's eyes drifted shut, enjoying the feel of the other man's hands on his body. He groaned. This was nice—

_No. NO._

This wasn’t Stiles, and if Peter wanted answers, he needed to leave. In a minute.

But then not-Stiles bent down and kissed him, and it was _good_ , and Peter felt heavy, and...

What was the problem, again? Peter wasn't sure.

Stiles’s lips brushed his ear, "Let go." His hands were hot as they slipped under Peter's shirt, gently tracing random patterns on his hips and stomach.

Without thought, Peter sank into the touch. He could let go, just a little bit, right? That wouldn't be so bad. No, he shouldn't—

"Peter."

He opened his eyes.

"I know you're afraid," he said softly. "But everything will be fine. Once you decide what you want, the sacrifice will be worth it, and we’ll be happy." Stiles’s eyes shone. "Don't you want to be happy, Peter?"

Of course, Peter wanted to be happy. He _was_ happy. Wasn’t he?

Then Stiles kissed him again—a true kiss this time. Peter should have expected it, but the sudden press of lips against his still took him by surprise. He made a noise that was half indignation, half moan, and the magician enthusiastically seized the opportunity to explore Peter's mouth with his tongue.

Peter still had half a mind to push this Stiles away—to find some way out of the room—but his thoughts kept slipping away under the onslaught of sensation. Stiles broke away to lick at the pulse in Peter's neck, eagerly sucking marks into the hollow of his throat. Peter dropped his head, baring his neck to Stiles, and the man took advantage, biting into Peter's flesh with a surprising growl.

The surprise pain sent a jolt of shock through Peter, and his vision whited out.

(The next three days were like heaven. Whenever Peter opened his eyes, Stiles was there, smiling at him. Once, he came awake in the bath, body flush against Stiles as the magician held his feverish body in the cool water. He briefly thought about getting up, of going somewhere he couldn't quite remember, but was lulled back to sleep instead by the soothing sound of Stiles’s voice. Other times, Stiles would kiss him until he felt drunk with pleasure, and touch him in ways that made him see stars.)

<> <>

"Peter? Can you hear me?" A familiar voice floated through his mind, only to be replaced by the feeling of something cold against his lips.

He blearily opened his eyes to see Allison frowning down at him, glass of water in hand. "You need to drink something, please."

He accepted the water gratefully, trying to figure out what was wrong. What had happened?

The meadow and the tiger and the stairs and the woods and the chest and—

The exhaustion crashed over him like a wave, and he let himself be pushed back against the bed. He vaguely noticed that it was different from the one in his dream.

“Stiles is coming,” Allison promised as she hovered beside him. “He had to check on some things, but he won’t be long. Is there anything you need?”

Peter drifted off before he could answer.

<> <>

Stiles was sitting on the end the end of Peter’s bed when he woke, and Allison was nowhere to be seen.

“Hi,” the young man said kindly. “So, I’ve got some good news and bad news.”

After everything, Peter was almost afraid to ask. “Oh?”

“The good news is that the house likes you, so yay! No more whammies for you. It’s very sorry it made you wander around for a week.”

Peter was aghast. “Only a week?”

Stiles pulled out a sandwich and drink from...somewhere, and offered it to the werewolf with a grimace. “Technically, it was nine days. And a half. If it matters? But you also got to meet Roscoe, so that was good. He likes you.”

Peter was tempted, in that moment, to jump up and run as far and as fast as he could from this crazy place, but he’d always been too curious for his own good, so...“What’s the bad news?”

The younger man waited until Peter was finished with his food to answer. “The bad news is that the nemata also like you, so you’re kind of stuck here. We’re glad to have you, of course. It won’t be so bad. Butalsosomeofthemwillprobablytrytoeatyou,” he added quickly.

“ _Excuse me_?” It took Peter a moment to filter the gibberish into words. What was going on here?

Stiles sighed, and settled himself further on the bed, but still far enough away that Peter wouldn’t feel crowded. He looked like he was considering crawling under the covers and ignoring the question altogether. “It’s complicated,” he began. “It’s an ecosystem, right? The house, and us, and the nemata. They all mean well, the trees, but they aren’t...they’re sort of like four-year-olds. They want us to be happy, because they need us, but they don’t think like humans, so they’re more ‘ends justify the means’ types. So one of them might, say, make you hallucinate something that it thinks you want so it can feed off the energy.” He pulled a face. “Which is not to say that I’m not flattered, because I think we had a moment before, and it was nice, and you’re very attractive, but...”

“So what you’re telling me is that your house has been leading me around like a lost lamb, your trees are trying to eat me—”

“Not all of them!”

“—I’ve been hallucinating for who knows how long—“

“Two days, tops.”

“—and now, you tell me I can’t leave. I suppose the tiger wasn’t real, either?”

“Oh, no, Roscoe’s real. He just doesn’t come inside much because he’s usually a jeep.”

“Of course, I don’t know why I didn’t think of that.”

“Okay, look,” Stiles straightened and vanished the empty dishes. “This place is weird, and crazy, and sometimes things try to eat you, but it’s not all bad. It’s better than dying in an alley, right?”

Peter glared, and refused to feel bad when Stiles wilted slightly. “What about my family?”

“The house told you, didn’t it, about sacrifice and reward?” The magician pulled himself to his feet, somehow looking much older than he had moments ago. “It’s not that you’ll never see them again, but it’s...” his voice cracked on the word, “complicated. Ask Ally to explain it to you.”

He ran from the room without a backwards glance.

**Author's Note:**

> Just for the record, the house and the nemata are all separate energies. None of them are evil, they’re just not human. Also, the jeep is occasionally a blue tiger (which is rumored to be an actual thing) because, as much as I wanted to, I couldn’t figure out a way to have Peter’s traveling companion be an automobile. This thing is nutty enough as it is.
> 
> I have no idea when I’ll update this series again, but I promise not to wait so long.
> 
> (Also, it’s late here, so I’m going to bed, but I’ll be catching up with comments this week.)
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
